


Things My Heart Used To Know

by twilightstargazer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anastasia Fusion, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Amnesia, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 07:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11709756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightstargazer/pseuds/twilightstargazer
Summary: He and Raven share a look.“How would you like to help us get to the City of Light?” asks Bellamy, slinging his arm around her shoulders. “You don’t need to do much, in fact we’ve got the paperwork and everything sort out already. All you need to do is ah, put on a little show.”The girls squints suspiciously at him. “What kind of show?”“Oh, you know,” says Raven airily, taking her other arm and leading her towards an old portrait at the top of the stairs. It’s a painting of the royal family, or what was the royal family, and she points towards the small blonde haired girl in the middle. “Just pretend to be Arkadia’s long lost princess, that’s all.”-or, conman Bellamy Blake just found his crew's ticket out of the slums of Arkadia that'll leave them ten million dollars richer.





	Things My Heart Used To Know

**Author's Note:**

> Huge shout out to Mavi without whom this would just barely be a fleeting idea. It's not exactly the same as the movie, there'll be a few other twists and turns, but it more or less follows the same plot. Also, the rating _might_ go up but idk as yet. We'll see as time passes.
> 
>  
> 
> _Far away,_  
>  _Long ago,_  
>  _Glowing dim as an ember,_  
>  _Things my heart used to know,_  
>  _Things it yearns to remember_  
>  _And a song someone sings_  
>  _Once upon a December_

The neckline of her gown is itchy.

Actually, the entire gown is itchy, making Clarke feel like an overgrown puff pastry made out of tulle and misery. Her mother slaps her hand away when she moves to tug at the collar and she flushes dully, but lets it drop to her side nonetheless.

“I hate this,” she grumbles, pouting petulantly while her mother fixes a sparkling tiara atop her head. There are so many pins holding everything together as well as what must have been at least two cans of hairspray. It all made Clarke feel jittery, ready to claw out of her own skin. “I much rather spend the evening with Wells up in my room instead of at this _stupid_ party—”

“Language,” her mother chides lightly as she shoves one last hairpin into place. She winces as it grates against her skull. “This ball is for Wells and his father.”

“This ball is for Uncle Thelonious and _you_ ,” she mutters, resisting the urge to cross her arms. She could already hear her mother chastising her again, _‘don’t fold your arms Clarke, you’ll wrinkle the dress._ ’ “Wells was perfectly happy to read while I painted this evening. We both think balls are _dumb_.”

“You’ll be changing your tune soon enough,” he mother hums, stepping back and running a critical eye down the length of her. “Balls are just another part of being royalty, Clarke. This is what’s expected of you, as future ruler of Arcadia.”

“Maybe the first law I’ll pass is one to ban balls forever.”

Queen Abigail sighs. “I hope one day you’ll take this seriously. All of this, and do what is right, what is–”

“–expected of me,” she finishes with a roll of her eyes. “Yeah, I get it. I’m _expected_ to give up my art because it’s a frivolous and time wasting activity. I’m _expected_ to wear more of these big, ugly dresses, and marry Wells, and keep the bloodline going. I know. You’ve been drilling it into my head since I could talk.”

“You better control that attitude before we go down there young lady or else I’ll–”

“You’ll what?” scoffs Clarke, turning away from her mother and glaring at a portrait of some ancient family member. “You’re leaving in the morning. You won’t have time to do anything.”

Abby stops in the doorway, watching as she continues to go on with, “You’re leaving me, and dad, and _everyone_ to go off on some stupid adventure in the City of Light.”

Her eyebrows raise. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Abandoning you and your father?”

“That’s what it is.”

The queen lets the door fall shut with a soft thump before walking back to Clarke. She takes her hand, guiding her over to the padded bench by the window overlooking the palace’s courtyard. Already there are a few nobles trickling in, and one glance at the tall grandfather clock in the corner tells her that it’s only twenty minutes before the ball is truly set to begin.

“I’m _not_ abandoning our family,” Abby says firmly, giving her hands a squeeze. “I’m going with Uncle Thelonious to do research, and I promise I’ll visit as much as I can. Even you and your father can come visit for a few days at a time if you’d like.”

“Why can’t I just come with you?” she asks, still pouting. “Wells is going, and research sounds way more fun than policy meetings.”

“Wells isn’t the next ruler of Arkadia,” says her mother, “Even if you do get married–”

“–which we won’t–”

“–You’re the one who’s going to be in charge.” Abby brushes back a wisp of hair that has fallen into Clarke’s face, letting her hand caress her cheek for a moment. “I know it seems that Arkadia is safe, but the other territories around us are growing unstable wish each passing day. No one knows what’s going to happen, but the time will come one day when you’ll have to lead, and you need to be ready for it. That means staying with your father and listening to what your teachers say.”

She gets up, leaving Clarke by the window as she crosses the room.

“I was going to wait until after to give you this,” she says, rifling through the cabinet and drawers before pulling out a small box that couldn’t be any bigger than a peach. She passes it over to Clarke who takes it with gentle hands.

“It belonged to your grandmother,” says Abby, watching as she strokes the delicate stained glass lid. “It was a gift to her on the day of my birth and she gave it to me on yours. Open it.”

Ever so slowly she pries the top of it open and a soft, haunting melody drifts through the air.

Clarke looks up in amazement. “That’s our our song,” she breathes, watching as the tiny centrepiece twirls in place.

“You can play it whenever you want,” she says, giving her hand one last squeeze before looking past her shoulder and smiling. “Wells has a gift for you too.”

Clarke whips around, and sure enough Wells is standing in the doorway, looking just as uncomfortable in his formal wear as she felt. She grins at him and he smiles back, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

She stands. “I’ll give you two a moment. Someone will be up shortly to escort you downstairs when the time comes.”

“I know where the ballroom is, mom,” she says with a roll of her eyes. Wells coughs to hide his snicker.

Abby sighs but doesn’t say anything further as she leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

Once she’s gone they both slump forward in their seats, all pretense of formality flying out the window.

“This sucks,” she announces, and he nudges her with his shoulder.

“Tell me about it,” he says, their feet swinging and knocking against the wooden panel below. “I wish I could stay. I’m going to miss you.”

Clarke sniffs. “I’m going to miss you too,” she tells him, before nudging him back. “Heard you had a gift for me though.”

He laughs. “Of course. I should have known that that’s what you’ve been waiting for all this time,” he says, grinning. “Where’s my gift, huh? I’m the one who’s leaving. You should let me take the golden horse from the throne room.”

“I mean I would, except that’s not mine. You have to wait until I’m queen to get it,” she replies, and he just laughs.

“Well, I do have your paintings.”

“And you better hang them in your room. If they’re not there whenever I come for a visit then we’re no longer friends,” she tells him as she pokes his side. “Now come on, gimme my present.”

“So impatient,” he huffs, even as he procures a tiny velvet bag from within his jacket. “The blacksmith helped me make it.”

“You mean the blacksmith’s apprentice?” she asks coyly, glancing at him sidelong. “The one you have a crush on?”

A barely visible flush makes itself known high on his cheeks and Wells pretends to not know what she’s talking about. “Shut up and open your present.”

She spares him any further taunts and does just that, undoing the bow and turning it upside down in her palm.

A delicate gold necklace flows out, warm to the touch, and she gently picks it up. There’s an infinity sign hanging off the end, small and rugged, glinting in the golden light that is seeping from the chandelier above them. It’s not perfect by any means, obviously handmade, but her fingers still shake as she traces it reverently.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, staring at it for a moment longer before clutching it tight in her fist and throwing her arms around him. “Thank you,” she mumbles into his neck.

Wells’ arms come up around her too, squeezing just as tight and Clarke already knows that there are going to be wrinkles on her dress, but she can’t find it in her to care. “It’s the symbol of the City of Light. You’re welcome,” he mutters back, giving her one last squeeze before pulling away.

She makes him put it on for her now, and the chain is both fine enough to not be seen from far and long enough that the pendant is hidden by her high neckline.

An attendant comes to fetch them a short while later, and they both spend the entire opening ceremony pulling funny faces at one another from across the hall while her mother looks on disapprovingly. Clarke doesn’t find it in herself to care. If this is the last night she’s getting to spend with her best friend in who know’s how long, then she’s damn well going to take advantage of it.

Thankfully, the formalities don’t last too long. Within half an hour her father wraps up his speech and the orchestra gets started, people filing onto the dance floor while waiters spill out holding trays of champagne and hors d’œuvres.

She snags an entire tray of canapés for Wells and herself, as well as a glass of champagne for them to split. They hide it from their parents, sitting in the shadows, giggling as they take turns sipping and making faces at the bitterness of the bubbly drink.

“My dad is all too happy to get going,” he sighs, filching a piece of smoked salmon and swallowing it in one bite. “He sent all of our stuff over already. Even my chess set.”

“We’ve got lots of chess sets here in the palace. I don’t know why you’re so upset about that one,” she says, stealing the flute glass and taking another sip. It seems to taste better in time, but she still has no ideas how the nobles on the dance floor are perfectly content with swallowing glass after glass, easy as anything. It must be one of those adult things.

“It’s not the same. That’s my lucky chess set,” grumbles Wells, and she flicks a piece of parsley at him.

“You just don’t want me to beat you the night before you have to leave,” she eases him, and he shrugs, offering her an easy smile.

“Maybe,” he nods. “Or maybe because I don’t want to put up with you being a sore loser when I inevitably beat you.”

She doesn’t have a proper comeback for that so she just pulls a face and throws another piece of garnish his way.

“What are they going to be researching anyway?” she asks after a couple of moments while they people watched. It’s one of the things she’s going to miss sorely when he’s gone, getting to make fun of the outfits some people wear to these things. “My mom didn’t want to tell me.”

“I dunno,” says Wells, snatching up the last cream cheese pastry before she could have it. He grins as he shoves it into his mouth and she kicks him in the shins. “My dad just said that it could probably help lead to peace among the other clans. It sounds like a good idea.”

“But they have to go almost a thousand miles to away to work on it?” she asks skeptically. “Sounds like a load of bullshit to me.”

An older woman, a duchess of some sort, who happens to be passing in front of them at that exact moment to get to the powder room, sends Clarke a scandalised look. She and Wells manage to keep it together, looking appropriately abashed long enough until she’s out of earshot before the collapse into a pile of hysterics.

“She’s going to tell your mother,” he wheezes, more than five minutes later after they’ve started to calm down. Clarke is still leaning heavily on his shoulder, cheeks flushed with mirth. “ _That is language unbecoming of a lady. I raised you better than that_ ,” he says in a rough imitation of Abby’s voice that has her snorting all over again.

It causes several other people nearby to flash them dirty looks but she can’t find it in her to care, not really.

“She’s going to threaten to send me to Diana Sydney’s finishing classes again,” she nods solemnly, and the two of them start cracking up again.

Diana Sydney was a previous advisor to the king, representing the people of the factory district. She was let go after it was revealed that she was leaking state secrets to an Ice Nation spy. The trial was still ongoing, but somehow Sydney found herself here tonight, donned in a garishly pink pile of ruffles. Clarke’s been doing her best to stay far, far out of her way as she would no doubt start criticising every aspect about her, from the way she stood, to the way she spoke. She was notorious about manners and discipline, citing that girls should prim and proper in the old fashioned way.

(That meant seen rather than heard, and hanging on to a man’s elbow at all times. Clarke may only be twelve, but even she knew that is was a load of dung, and said as much to Sydney’s face last time they were forced to interact.)

(Her mother was furious for days, but her father could not stop laughing so she considered it a win.)

“It’s odd that she’s here though,” says Wells, staring discretely at the woman in question. “I would have thought that being embroiled in scandal would have meant that she would avoid things like this.”

“It’s Sydney,” she says dryly, leaning back against the large stone pillar, “The only thing she likes more than hearing herself talk, is having people fawn over her while she does so.”

The lapse into comfortable silence, leaning on each other as they people watch. They do get up and mingle a few times, usually at the behest of one of their parents. Clarke ends up accompanying her father for several dances, laughing as he twirls her about without any rhyme nor reason, and Wells sneaks another tray– this one with desserts– for them to share.

Sometime during the night’s proceedings she takes her tiara off, and it ends up on his head, lying off kilter. It’s just past midnight and the ball is still in full swing.

And then the doors bang open, startling everyone who was nearby.

At first, the royals don’t notice, sitting in their thrones at the head of the room and talking amongst themselves, but then a hush descends amongst the entire room as the soldier staggers forward, clearing the way for him.

His uniform is ripped and bloodied, and there’s a wound in his stomach that’s bleeding profusely, dripping all over the marble floors.

King Jake immediately gets to his feet, as does Thelonious who was sitting beside him.

“–attack,” the man manages to sputter out, “Ice Nation– _here–_ ”

He’s cut off by an arrow flying clean through his throat and Clarke makes a choked off sound as his corpse slumps to the ground.

Standing in the doorway, bow still in hand, is the Ice Nation queen herself, flanked by a dozen of the queensguard.

She notches another arrow, training it directly at the king’s heart, and it takes all of two seconds for complete havoc to break out.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy has worked in the palace kitchens for as long as he can remember. His mother worked here, and couldn’t afford a babysitter, so she brought him and left him with the kitchen staff everyday while she saw about her own things. It meant that while he grew up without the necessary attention that should have been paid to children surrounded by sharp objects and hot surfaces– he had the scars to prove it– it also meant that by the age of seventeen, working full time in the kitchens, he knows the palace inside out.

The secret passageways, the hidden rooms, almost every secret the palace had to offer, he knew about it.

Which is definitely comes in handy on a night like tonight.

Everywhere he turns there’s a battle being fought or a body lying still. He sends a silent prayer of thanks up to the gods that his mother is safe at home with his baby sister, and then another prayer that he can hopefully join them soon.

If he gets out of this alive.

Bellamy knows that he can hold himself well enough in a streetfight, but this something entirely different from a knuckle brawl in an alleyway with boys just as scrappy as him.

These are trained fighters, the Ice Nation’s _queensguard_ , supposedly the most ruthless and bloodthirsty warriors out there, and he’s just a boy with clammy hands and nothing but a machete to defend himself.

He is so fucked.

Slowly, he inches down the hallway, weapon raised. It’s empty, but you could never be too sure.

It’s the closest exit he could think of, the vents that would let him out behind the western wall, but it’s also perhaps the most dangerous. It’s located in the room right above the ballroom, and he can only hope that the fighting hasn’t spread as yet.

This battle has been a long time coming as far as he could tell.

Arkadia, while far removed politically, was smack dab in the middle of the warring nations. Bellamy may be far too young to be on the country’s war council, but even he could see that it would be beneficial to both Trikru _and_ the Ice Nation if they managed to overpower them and take the country hostage. With the increase in military and supplies, whoever managed to upstage them first would certainly have the powers to win the war.

And it seems like the Ice Nation decided to risk it.

He’s not blind, he knows that Sydney had something to do with this. Knows that she’s been feeding them nuggets of information and the discontented members of his constituency must have been all too happy to help them overthrow the monarchy. The Ice Nation must have made wild promises in order to get them to turn on their own country, and Bellamy’s stomach sours at the thought of his own friends betraying one another.

He tightens his grip on the machete as he peeks around the corner, and then exhales in relief when he finds that it’s also empty.

It doesn’t stay that way for long though, as a girl runs in from the other end, blonde hair coming undone from her fancy updo, her enormous dress stained and ripped. She doesn’t seem to notice him until she’s only a couple feet away, and would have probably screamed had he not cover her mouth with his hand.

“It’s okay,” he breathes, trying to calm her. She’s far too pale, and he can feel her shaking in his grasp. “It’s okay, I work in the palace.”

He slowly drops his hand and she only just sniffs. “I’m Clarke,” she says, and that leads to tension ratcheting up his spine.

She’s the princess of Arkadia.

If she’s here then that means Ice Nation warriors aren’t far behind.

Muttering a curse, he grabs her wrist. “Alright princess, come on. I know a way out of here.”

“I need to get my music box,” she says stubbornly, pulling him in the direction he was heading in anyway and he rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, fine, whatever, but we need to go now.”

The room is just down the hall when he hears the thundering of feet coming up the stairs and the two of them share a look before running like hell.

“ _Clarke!_ ”

This time he doesn’t even bother to hide his swear as he whirls around, weapon raised, only to come face to face with the queen.

Just like her daughter she’s pale, tear tracks glimmering on her cheeks and blood staining the bodice of her dress. A mottled flush works its way up his cheeks and she regards him warily.

“You can’t just run off like that,” she hisses at her, grabbing her hand from Bellamy’s. “The castle is under siege and you just–”

“Can you discuss proper coup etiquette later when we’re not about to get our heads chopped off,” he interrupts, barring the door shut behind her. He can only hope it holds long enough for them to get free. “Come on, there’s a way out through here.”

There’s a desk blocking the vent and he pushes it out of the way before carefully removing the panel. Behind him he can hear the princess gasp and grab something off the bureau.

Bellamy gets the panel freed just as the doorknob jiggles, and the three of them share a look.

“Go,” he hisses, pushing the queen and the princess towards the hole in the wall. “ Keep straight and follow the vents. It’ll take you outside the palace wall, go!”

Something slips out of the princess’ grasp, landing with a thud on the floor the same moment the warriors outside try to break down the door.

“My music box!” she gasps, trying to double back. Bellamy pushes her harder, feeling slightly guilty for the grunt of pain it elicits from her.

“Go!” he says again.

He slots the panel back in place just as the door bursts open and the guard come tumbling in. Bellamy manages to slice one of their arms, but it’s five on one and he ends up getting shoved into the wall, his head knocking painfully against the moulding.

His vision goes blurry as he falls to the ground, and before he knows it, he’s staring into nothingness.

 

* * *

 

Clarke can still feel her blood pounding in her veins as she and her mother creep through the vents. They end up tumbling out just outside the wall, like the boy said.

She’s seen him around the castle, once or twice. The kitchen boy with stars on his face.

Thankfully they seem to be far removed from the battle still raging on in the castle, and he mother grabs her hand immediately.

“We need to go,” she says, pulling her along the cobblestoned pathway. “We need to leave now. You’re coming with me to the City of Light. Thelonious should be at the station already.”

“But what about dad?” she sniffs, clutching to her tightly. “What about everyone else?”

“Clarke, they’ll kill you,” says her mother, voice wobbling. “I married into the bloodline, I have no stake on the throne but you… They want you dead. We have to go.”

She doesn’t know when she starts crying as they run through busy streets. Word about the attack seems to have gotten out, and everyone is in a panic. There are people lining the streets, some crying, some gossipping, some leaving, still dressed in their night clothes.

The crowds just seem to get thicker the closer they get to the train station, and it’s a struggle to keep up with her mother, especially when people keep trying to pry them apart, rushing forward to get on the next train out.

She’s cold and scared and tired and just when she thinks things can’t get any worse, someone walks into her, causing her to trip forward.

Her mother’s hand slips out of her grasp, the crowd jostling them this way and that until Clarke can no longer see her, or hear her, or anything.

“Mom?” she calls out, her voice lost amongst the din. “Mom!”

A train whistle blows and somehow the crowd get thicker, pushing and shoving as it surges forward. She can’t see, not through the throng of of bodies, doesn’t know left from right or if she’s even heading the right way anymore.

“Please-” she starts, only to get pushed out of the way, stumbling against the wall. No one pays her a second glance, her dress is stained and tattered, ripped in some places and she doesn’t doubt that she looks like one of the orphans that line the streets.

“I need to get on a train,” she tries again, “Can someone please tell me-”

Someone shoves her once more, harder, and this time Clarke can’t quite manage to catch herself in time.

She falls to the ground, hitting her head against the stone with a resounding _crack!_ and for a moment these a sharp shock of pain that hurts enough to muffle all her other senses before everything goes dark.

 

**Author's Note:**

> the other chapters are gonna be longer, i promise, this is just the prologue. drop me a line on [tumblr](http://hiddenpolkadots.tumblr.com/) if you wanna scream.


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